


La Pomme Vie Et Morte

by Cashmerebunni



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, I got tired of reading the same fic over and over again oops, Slow Burn, Take this, UH i dont know, hide your babies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2019-02-08 19:03:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12871035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cashmerebunni/pseuds/Cashmerebunni
Summary: Lady Inquisitor Ellana Lavellan is quickly tiring of the enormous burden of the inquisition on her back.





	La Pomme Vie Et Morte

A bolt of fluorescent, glowing green. An avalanche. Cold. Dark. Frozen. . . Corypheus. The orb. Green. . . cold. . . alone. Alone. Alone. 

It would be deep into the afternoon. The elf would scream out, launching from her bed onto the floor, the loud thump of body against age-old wood alerting the guard downstairs. That was the fifth time, ever since they had trekked through the voluptuous powdered mountaintops to Skyhold, the battered shell of a castle abandoned by time itself, where she had endured that awful nightmare. Haven. Gone, in the blink of an eye. It seemed more real with every second that passed, but she would always wake up in terror and drenched in sweat at the blood-curdling roar of the archdemon. She would slowly stand, night robes clinging to her porcelain, pale skin, the beating of boots upon the staircase ripping her from her horrid recollections. 

“Lady Lavellan!,” The worried, young guard would call out, saluting her. The boy was no older than 18, with soft features and a curiously pointy nose. Frederick, he called himself. Ellana called him “Charming.” She would be steady on her feet, picking a loose feather from her bodice, the same as those littering the floor, due to the trashing of the herald, the pillows receiving a nightly beating that any demon or mage alike would shite the bed thinking about. Frederick would stare at her, fiddling with his hands nervously, “Are you alright?,” the boy asked, yet he already knew the answer. He knew it before she could speak, the same, grim look stuck on her slim, Dalish face as the previous nights.

There would be a long, pained silence before she would respond, her voice cracking as if she hadn’t had anything to drink in days. “Fine. I’m fine. Hungry, though. Ask the kitchen to send up a tray for me, please?” She’d softly rub her stomach, sighing and taking a seat on her firm, ornately dressed bed. Frederick would quickly nod, hurrying out and giving her a rather pitiful glance before quietly shutting the door behind him. Pity. Ellana would rub her temple, looking to the glowing fire that kindled about a meter from her bed, the flames licking and tugging at the air without ambition. The embers would illuminate some of the many gold embellishments that covered her orlesian furniture, along with the long, soft curls of her marigold ginger hair that would cascade from her skull and kiss the tops of her broad, elvish shoulders.

She’d be transfixed by the flames for what seemed like ages before she heard the hard, familiar knock at the door, pulling her once more from her mind. “Ellana,?” She’d hear the voice of Dorian Pavus, the tevinter, or more importantly, her best friend. She’d smile softly. Frederick was smart to send him up. She would take a mental note, asking herself to remember to praise the boy to the commander, but for now, Breakfast. “Come in, lovely,” She’d call out, standing and cracking her long fingers before sauntering over the chaise lounge that sat in front of her hearth, a hand quickly removing the debris from the low table beside it. 

Dorian would bust in, carrying a golden tray that simply overflowed with fresh bread, preserves, and most importantly: Sweet rolls, Ellana’s favorite.

**Author's Note:**

> The apples nearest the cafe are said to change their taste depending on whether one is walking toward or away from the gallows. And of course they do, for taste is subject to the whims of the heart, and no meal is favored after tears. But dare it anyway, for none know the taste of joy such as we who do not shy from experience.
> 
> —From "Our Orlesian Heart" by (Formerly) Sister Laudine


End file.
